


Supper

by athena_crikey



Series: Second Sight [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7615006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was something about the stark emptiness of the young man’s life that convinced Thursday early-on Morse was in need of mothering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supper

There was something about the stark emptiness of the young man’s life that convinced Thursday early-on Morse was in need of mothering. 

His people, Thursday learned after a few shared lunches at which he seemed to be the only one eating, were up in Lincolnshire, not that it much mattered from what the lad had told him of them. They could have been on the other side of the street from him and he’d have been no happier for it. 

It wasn’t hard to guess at his lack of attachments; there was a colourness to Morse’s flat and his bland clothes which spoke of a long solitude. He managed it all impeccably – of that Thursday had no doubt – but it showed all the same. He put Thursday in mind of a lone boat on an empty sea, riding through clear skies and storms always in the same loneliness. 

And so: “I want you to come for supper,” he announced one afternoon over his pint, while Morse sipped anemically at a glass of lemonade. Morse’s brow knotted, head canting to the side like a young owl.

“What? I mean, why?” He sounded genuinely confused. Safe from approbation, Thursday rolled his eyes.

“Because I’m not sure how you manage to live off air, but occasionally you ought to have a proper meal. Besides, the family’s keen to meet you,” he added to alieve the unimpressed frown that was spreading over Morse’s lips. 

“That’s very kind,” the lad said dubiously, “but –”

“Won’t take no for an answer,” cut in Thursday, cheerfully. “And anyway, you’ve not been recompensed for your assistance.”

“Buy me a drink,” said Morse, now looking a bit skittish.

“You don’t drink.”

“I drink lemonade.”

“Win’s got her heart set on it. Firm as the Heavens, my Win. It won’t be anything straining, just drinks and dinner. We have lemonade,” he added with finality.

Morse still contrived to look anguished; Thursday pretended not to notice. It would do the lad good. “Friday, shall we say? At 7? Meet you here; we can walk.”

  
***

Despite the fuss Morse had kicked up he was there promptly at 7 outside the Hatchet, wearing the same fawn rain-coat as always, with a blazer and an open-collared shirt. His hair was newly washed, some of his thick locks still damp, and his face had a clawed look from a too-close shave. He held himself stiffly, glaring off into the middle-distance without tracking any of the sound of the hurrying pedestrians or rumbling engines as they passed by, like a statue of an lanky underfed firebrand. As Thursday approached and slowed Morse looked over inquisitively.

“Morse,” greeted Thursday; Morse’s glower lightened and he gave a hint of a smile. “We’re not too far.”

Morse shifted his grip on his cane and came to take up a position beside Thursday, the two of them walking side-by-side down the pavement. 

“Good day?” he asked. Morse shrugged.

“Churning out propaganda for Bailey. It pays the bills, but it’s hardly stimulating.”

“I’m sure it makes a difference for those as need it.” Thursday navigated them around a fire plug, hand at Morse’s elbow.

“Information about new housing schemes? Possibly, but I doubt it. Not many of our patrons are permanent residents of Oxford. They would rather have their Kant and Keynes more promptly.”

They were accompanied by the steady whickering of Morse’s cane over the pavement as they walked, the red tip sweeping the ground in semi-circles regular as a pendulum. Morse’s hand held it loosely, his long fingers deft at interpreting its signals. His shoulders he kept stiffly back, his chin up. A mask of poorly-concealed concern had impressed itself on his features. 

The day after the arrest of Mason Gull, he’d seemed much the same as ever. This was the first time since then Thursday had seen him under strain – more strain than he’d shown at the time, or so it seemed. That he was more nervous of attending a family dinner than chasing a lunatic alone and unarmed said something about the lad’s private life – said a good deal. He was in need of loosening up, of more than that: of being cared for. 

“Fred?” intoned Morse, cautiously, and Thursday’s attention snapped back to the here and now.

“Sorry,” he said. “Thinking.”

  
***

It was just beginning to drizzle as they reached the house, Thursday preceding Morse up the stone path to unlock the door.

Win was already hurrying forward through the hall to meet him as he entered, resting her hands lightly on his shoulders and giving him a peck; she smelled of a summer garden. She had pulled a layer of dark hair back and pinned it up, and was wearing a smart dress and heels. Thursday felt a flush of warmth, proud she had made the effort for Morse, who would never know it. She gave him a smile and slipped past.

“You must be Morse. Please, come in.” She pressed his hand and accompanied him over the threshold. “Let me take your coat. Oh dear, is it raining?”

“Just started,” said Thursday, closing the door. 

“I’m Win, love. Pleased to meet you.” Win was divesting a slightly startled-looking Morse of his raincoat.

“Thank you,” he managed, combing down his hair with his free hand. He had somehow wiped the skittish look from his face and had contrived to look if not confident at least something close to it.

“Would you like to keep your cane? Only I’m afraid it’s a bit of a squeeze.”

Thursday blinked, but to his surprise Morse handed it to her. “I’m sure you won’t see me come to harm.”

Thursday huffed. “Certainly not. Come along, Morse; lemonade in the sitting room.” Thursday waited for Morse to take hold of his shoulder, then walked him through to the back of the house, Win coming along behind. 

“The kids’ll be through shortly, I should think; Joan had some shopping to do, and Sam’s upstairs finishing his revising.” Thursday sat Morse down in the easy chair and took the end of the sofa for himself. 

“How old are they?”

“Joan’ll be 22 this December; Sam’s 17. Wants to join up with the army.” He shook his head.

Morse settled back into the chair, relaxing a little. Thursday mirrored him, and smiled encouragingly to Win when she leaned around the corner with a bottle of sherry in her hand. She disappeared again into the kitchen, presumably to fetch glasses. “You’d rather he didn’t?” asked Morse, curiously.

Thursday shrugged. “I couldn’t demob fast enough.”

“You served,” said Morse, somewhere between surprised and curious. 

“North Africa and Italy. Made it back in one piece; I’m thankful for that.”

Win stepped through with a sherry in one hand and a lemonade in the other. “What’s this? War stories?”

“No; Morse was asking about Sam,” replied Thursday, heading off the conversation neatly. “Where is he, anyway? Ought to be done by now, oughtn’t he?” He glanced up at the ceiling, where overhead Sam was presumably revising. 

“I’m sure he’ll come down when he is; I can’t imagine him taking any longer than necessary.” Win smiled and offered Morse his drink. “Here you are, love; Fred said you preferred lemonade.”

“Thank you, Mrs Thursday.”

“Win, love.” Win gave Thursday’s knee a pat as she slipped by, perching beside him on the rise of the central cushion. “Fred says you work with the resource centre in town. Do you do any work with the local schools?”

Morse shifted his weight, sitting up to answer. “The colleges, yes, but I’m afraid not with the grade schools. Their programmes are administered privately, or through the local councils. We tried to convince the _Mail_ to run a braille edition, but I’m afraid it’s not to be.” He spread his hands in a gesture of defeated finality. 

“Oh, how disappointing. What sort of things do you print, then?”

“All sorts; it depends what we’re commissioned to do. Most often colleges with a blind student will commission the material they need for their coursework, but sometimes we work with community groups to provide resources. Just recently Bailey had us doing some work for the community, actually – information on a new housing scheme.” He left out his former negativity, Thursday noted with amusement. 

“And when you’re not too busy with that, you help Fred with his cases.”

Morse blushed, ducking his head. “Only once or twice.”

Thursday adopted a put-upon look at this self-abasement. “One or two big cases, you mean. If you’d been in the Force, those could have been career-makers for you, Morse.”

“Instead, they were nearly career-breakers.” Morse’s lips twitched. “My employer takes a rather dim view of her employees disappearing at all hours to help the police with their enquiries. Even if I’m not the one being chucked in the chokey.”

Win gave a breath of laughter. “I do hope you can keep it up; you really have been a terrific help to Fred.” 

Morse’s blush deepened. “Thank you,” he said, gruffly.

  
***

The children arrived over the course of the next twenty minutes, to a round of introductions and hand-shaking. Sam was overly-garrulous, which Thursday chalked up to nervousness, but Joan was cool and polite – and with an assessing glint to her eye as she took Morse’s hand. After all, Thursday supposed, he wasn’t a half-bad looking lad what with his high cheekbones and narrow face, and the intensity with which he seemed to stare did nothing to lessen his looks.

By now the air was thick with the savoury smell of dinner, and at a look from Win, Thursday suggested they move through the dining room. He ushered the family through, Morse at his side. 

“It’s French onion soup, followed by Beef Bourguignon,” announced Win, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Mum’s been trying her hand at the continental cuisine,” explained Joan, taking her seat. Morse, at the foot of the table, ran his fingers lightly over the tablecloth and picked out his cutlery. 

The children did rather stare as Win served the soup from the tureen and Morse proceeded to eat with the manners of any well-raised lad – a description which at times could only be applied to Sam with a generosity of spirit. Thursday gave them a pointed look, and they turned their attention to their own bowls. 

“Dad says you proof the braille here in town. Is it difficult to learn?” asked Joan, eyes still on Morse. 

“It’s just memorization, and learning to think a little differently. As you go you get better at reading fluidly, without having to spell it all out. I suppose it if were your first experience of reading it would be more difficult. Picking it up when already literate is less of a challenge.”

“Then you were – I mean, before, you…” Joan trailed off into embarrassed silence, and Morse took pity on her.

“I lost my sight a few years ago. Before that, I was up at Oxford.”

“Doing what?” asked Sam, rolling his eyes at Joan’s gaffe. Win gave them both a black look, and they settled.

If Morse had noticed anything amiss, he gave no sign of it, pausing with his spoon half to his mouth. “Reading Greats,” he answered, matter-of-factly. 

“Then you must know Latin,” cut in Joan, pleased. Morse smiled.

“Some, yes.”

“I ought to bring you in to work; Ronnie’s always lording it over us – he learned it at grammar school. I’m sure he didn’t learn it properly – he doesn’t manage anything else properly.” She put her spoon down with a clatter, eyes snapping. 

“Turned you down, has he?” asked Sam, wryly. Joan gave him a cutting glare. 

“I turned him down. He’s all wet.”

“Sopping,” agreed Sam.

Thursday opened his mouth to enquire more deeply into the topic of Joan’s failed romance, and was cut off by his wife. 

“Done with the soup?” asked Win, rising.

  
***

“How did you come to meet Dad? Murder suspect?” asked Joan later over the main course with laughter in her eyes.

“Joan,” warned Thursday, giving her a look as he bit down on a piece of thick, savoury beef. 

“It’s not work,” she protested. “Not really.”

Morse looked perplexed. “I’m sorry?”

“We don’t talk about work,” explained Thursday, rounding up some mushrooms. “Clean break between the job and home.”

“Oh. In that case…”

“Go on and tell them, if you like,” offered Thursday, sighing. It would be a treat for the kids, and make some conversation for Morse. 

Morse set down his fork carefully, aligning it with the edge of the plate with steady fingers. “I called Fred with information on a case. A murder enquiry.”

“Did you know who did it?” asked Sam.

Morse ran his fingers along the edge of the tablecloth, expression thoughtful. “Actually, yes. But I didn’t want to say so.”

Thursday stiffened, but the children were already perking up.

“Why not?” asked Joan. “I mean, why’d you call Dad if you didn’t want to tell him?”

Morse considered for a moment. “I suppose I wished I was wrong. Deep down I suspected someone I very much admired and… I wanted to be wrong. I gave Fred the information he needed to determine if someone else had done it.”

Joan leaned forward. “And had they?”

“No. In the end, it turned out I had been right from the start – and a woman I cared for lost her life because of me.” He sighed. “I’m sorry; it’s not a pleasant story.”

“Rosalind Stromming’s guilt wasn’t your fault, Morse,” said Thursday gently, while Sam and Joan stared. 

“No. Just her death.” Morse turned his blue, staring eyes on Thursday, anguish stamped on his face. “If I had kept my silence…”

Thursday put down his own knife and fork, staring back. “Then there would have been no justice for the dead. Or the living.”

“Believing that’s what makes you a copper,” replied Morse, but he sounded weary rather than bitter. Straightening, he seemed to take notice of the silence that had fallen like a shroud over the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to become so maudlin.”

“That’s alright, love,” said Win, kindly. “Some things aren’t so easily forgotten.”

“Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” broke in Joan, making an effort. “Dad also said you’re frightfully keen on opera. One of the girls down the bank is in the chorus for the local effort – they’re doing The Flying Dutchman next month, do you know it?”

Morse pulled himself together, looking back to her and letting a brief smile slip over his lips. “Yes, Miss Thursday.”

“Ought I to go see it? What’s it about, anyway? Pirates, I think?”

Morse set his elbows on the table, folding his fingers together – only halfway through his dinner, and unlikely to finish the rest, Thursday predicted. Still, it was progress. 

Morse rested his chin on his hands, and began, “Well, it starts with a storm at sea…”

  
***

The children disappeared upstairs after dinner and Win began clearing away the dinner things, leaving Thursday and Morse to return to the sitting room. Morse found his own way to the chair this time, seating himself slowly.

“I didn’t mean to rehash the business with Rosalind Calloway,” said Morse softly, running his thumb over the side of his hand. He looked faded, like an old painting under strong light. “I can see why you try not to bring your work home with you.”

“Hm.” Thursday produced his tobacco pouch and proceeded to fill his pipe. “You never said you knew it was her from the start.”

Morse was looking off into the middle distance. “Didn’t I?” he asked, tone far away. 

“Don’t dwell on it, lad.”

“I’m not. I just – wonder, sometimes.”

“What’s that?”

“What would have happened if I’d never called you.”

For a moment Thursday was silent, unlit pipe cradled in his hands. Finally he answered, “Then you’d never have experienced the joys of a Thursday family dinner,” replied Thursday. “And, incidentally, I would likely be dead, killed by Mason Gull.”

A slow smile tugged at Morse’s lips. “Just incidentally?”

“Never one to put myself forward.”

They sat in silence, Thursday lighting his pipe and starting it drawing. 

“I don’t regret it,” said Morse, suddenly. “The call – meeting you – I don’t regret it.”

Thursday let out his breath in a long slow stream of smoke. “Then can we count on you as a more regular guest?”

Morse smiled, eyes crinkling round the edges and softening his bright blue eyes. “I think… I’d like that.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> Someday, maybe a sequel focused on HOME... we shall see.


End file.
